


of purity and virtue

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Baptism, Captivity, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drowning, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Violent Sex, Water Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “And upon your profession of faith and following, I baptize you, my beloved, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”Malcolm inhales, and John lowers him under. The icy water burns his skin, shakes his body, and he hugs himself tightly.And he waits, for a moment, for John to pull him back up.John doesn’t.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous





	of purity and virtue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/gifts).



Malcolm wakes to find the chains and cuffs no longer around his wrists, securing him to the floor of the cellar. 

Instead, he is over the shoulder of his captor, hands tied with a simple length of fishing rope dangling over, lightly hitting the small of John’s back with every step.

He’s tired. He doesn’t think he’s been drugged, lest he find John a hypocrite as much as a liar, and knows it’s far more likely the lack of sleep, the unrelenting night terrors, the fear.

So much fear.

Malcolm is so, so afraid.

It’s been months since he’s been taken, he believes. Perhaps two...perhaps three or more. There’s no way to tell. John took his watch and doesn’t wear one of his own, because time is nothing to him, he says. All the time that needs to be taken, can be so, if only to make Malcolm perfect. 

If only to make Malcolm his.

Malcolm has grown weak. He no longer has the strength to fight against the beatings, or the abuse. When John pulls his legs apart and prepares him, enters him, he can only try to breathe, to relax. To make it good for John, to make him come faster, as to get it over with.

Sometimes Malcolm comes, too. He tries to pretend that doesn’t mean anything.

Sometimes Malcolm feels other things. More often than not, he finds John’s presence something he desires, both around and inside him. 

The cellar is so cold, and Malcolm is so lonely. John’s attention, his arms, his warmth, is all Malcolm has to look forward to. 

“My Malcolm,” John says, and Malcolm blinks slow, forces his eyes to stay open even when they want to close. It’s hard to breathe in this position, and he tries not to focus on the way John’s shoulder is digging into his ribs, stuck out from starvation.

He eats when he’s good. 

Malcolm tries _so hard_ to be good, but John is rarely pleased with him.

“Yes, Savior,” he replies dutifully, shivering. The night is not over yet, no sunlight yet creeping over the horizon, and though it’s spring or nearing summer the air is chilled. 

And he has not been allowed to wear clothes since long, long ago.

“My beautiful disciple.”

Malcolm likes when John calls him beautiful, especially in that tone. It means he’s been good.

Or very, very bad.

But he thinks today, or rather the last, he’s behaved. 

Still, fearful, he dares to ask, “Have I disappointed my Savior?”

John hums out a chuckle. “No, beloved. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course, Savior.” Things pour from his mouth with no need to think by now. Compliments and pleasantries and anything he can to avoid more pain. “My Savior.”

“Good boy.” 

John stops. He slides Malcolm off his shoulder, and places him on his feet. 

For a moment, Malcolm is terrified as he looks out upon the moonlit lake.

He fears that this is it. This is where John will kill him.

But instead, John unties his hands. John places a hand on either shoulder, massages gently, and a slight moan falls from Malcolm’s mouth without his consent.

Nothing happens with it, anymore. 

“I’ve waited,” John says. “I’ve waited so long for this moment. It was too cold. It will still be cold, but I won’t let you freeze.”

He takes off his jacket and shoes. He pushes Malcolm forward, until his toes touch sand and frigid lake, and says, “It’s time for your baptism.”

A gasp chokes its way out as John keeps pushing, keeps forcing Malcolm to wade further into water so cold he feels his heart rate slowing before he’s even waist-deep.

“I-I’m cold, Savior,” he whispers, and John pulls him back against him, wraps his arms around him.

“I know, my Malcolm. But it’s time. We can wait no longer. _You_ cannot. _God_ cannot. You have done so well...become something so beautiful over these past months. So beautiful and mine. His. We’ve already made our love for one another final. It’s time to make your love for Him so.”

“Y-yes, S-Savior,” Malcolm says. 

Malcolm obeys. That’s all he is good for, anymore, because he has long come to terms with the fact that he will never be found.

John is all he has, now. John must love him, because no one will ever love Malcolm again but him.

When the water is up past Malcolm’s neck, below John’s shoulders, he stops them. Malcolm clutches tightly to John, shaking violently, and can feel John’s shaking, too.

Snuggles closer, if for nothing more than to give his Savior all the warmth he has left.

“Here,” John says. He pets Malcolm’s hair for a moment, and then pushes him arms-length away. 

“Do you accept Christ as your Lord, Malcolm Whitly?” 

“I do,” Malcolm says. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t dare.

“And I as your Savior, to lead you to Him in all ways?”

“Yes, Savior. I do.”

John dips his thumb in the water and makes a cross on Malcolm’s forehead. “Do you swear to follow Him, live for Him. Follow me, and live for me.”

“I do.”

John smiles. He kisses Malcolm gently upon the lips, and Malcolm smiles, too. 

He’s made John happy. 

“Then in obedience to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” John says, taking the back of Malcolm’s neck with one hand— _G...Gil? Gil...Gil, help me, help me, help me, please help me—_ and gently leaning him back towards the water with his other. “And upon your profession of faith and following, I baptize you, my beloved, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Malcolm inhales, and John lowers him under. The icy water burns his skin, shakes his body, and he hugs himself tightly.

And he waits, for a moment, for John to pull him back up.

John doesn’t.

He tries to be good. He tries to trust John to know what he’s doing.

And then he can’t comfortably hold his breath any longer, and he tries to surface himself.

John grasps a handful of his hair, yanks his head down, and pushes on his chest, forcing him to stay.

Malcolm panics. Malcolm panics at John’s touch like he hasn’t in months, starts to writhe in desperation, looks up through the rippling surface to see the shadow of John but not his face, not his expression. 

He thinks, perhaps, he was wrong. John _is_ going to kill him.

Bubbles erupt from his mouth as his lungs seize. He swallows one mouthful, then another. He coughs once, twice, and the moment he shudders in half a breath, choking it down, knowing this is the end and not fearing it as much as he should, John has mercy. He saves Malcolm yet again, pulling him from the depths and back out into the air.

He coughs, heaves, gasps. John holds him against his chest, and Malcolm couldn’t fight if he wanted to. He throws up water over John’s shoulder, and John pats his back.

“His Earth is divine,” he says. “This lake is His Creation. We are blessed. You are blessed. I am, to be honored with this duty, honored with this _life._ And with this natural water, through it and the Holy Spirit, you will be cleansed and reborn to everlasting life. With me, _for_ me, and for Him. Amen.”

Malcolm nods. He nods and clings to John for dear life, agrees and stutters out, “Y-yes, S-S-Savior, A-Amen!”

It does nothing to stop him from dunking Malcolm under again.

And after that, again.

And a third, in which he finally can’t stop his body from breathing in, filling his lungs with water that burns and aches and stabs until he blacks out into nothingness.

Yet his Savior does not let him die.

Malcolm jerks back to consciousness, to _life,_ and vomits more water than he remembers swallowing, coughs up more than he remembers breathing.

John has dragged him to shore, and saved him again.

“Oh, my Malcolm,” John says. “You are nearly clean, inside and out. With His Creation, you’ve purged the sin from your stomach, your lungs, your mind. But tonight we must be complete, beloved.”

Malcolm can’t speak. Only more water flows from between numb lips. The lower half of his body is still in the lake, and John hovers over him.

“Ssh,” John says anyways. 

He picks Malcolm up, turns him over in the sand.

Malcolm doesn’t feel John’s fingers as John pushes them in, nor his cock after that. He feels, vaguely, John grabbing at his hips, bruising them, leaving bite marks on his shoulders and neck next to the others with each thrust.

His Savior grabs a handful of his hair again, maneuvers his body to the side, and again pushes his head under the water.

Malcolm holds his breath, the breath he only just was blessed to start receiving again.

And then John thrusts forward hard, and it forces bubbles from his aching lungs.

Another thrust, and the rest of his air is gone.

Malcolm’s fingers claw at the sand beneath him. Rocks and shells and grit dig into his face, blind him. He grinds his teeth, presses his lips together, fights to resist.

John gives one more, and again, unwilling, Malcolm breathes. He takes a breath of lake, convulsing, and then John jerks his head up, lets him cough it out before he faints again.

Malcolm’s heart is stuttering, skipping beats in his chest from the strain as he wheezes and gags. His eyes flutter, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to take this.

And then John comes, moaning long and loud, and tilts Malcolm’s head, capturing his frozen lips in a kiss.

“It is done,” John says, breathless, and Malcolm starts to silently weep. He coughs harder, ridding the rest of the water, and John kisses over his face as he does, still inside him, petting over his body.

“You are cleansed, my beautiful Malcolm. Inside and out. With His Divine Creation, and the seed of your Savior.”

Malcolm breathes. He breathes, and he cries, and he nods. 

“You are born again, my Malcolm,” John says, kissing Malcolm’s forehead, his nose, his lips, down his chest, his stomach, his cock, each thigh, his knees. His feet are left untouched, and Malcolm knows John would not lower himself to kiss what he forces Malcolm to on his own body. They are both alive, living, breathing, of God, but they are not the same, and they are not equal.

“No longer of sin, but of purity and virtue. Of faith, my beloved. You are finally ready to continue your journey with me.”

“Yes, Savior,” Malcolm says. He doesn’t know how the words come out so steady when his body is anything but.

John finally pulls out. Malcolm feels him leaking from his backside, and is glad to at least have some sensation back in his abused body.

Or perhaps it would have been better to stay numb.

Or perhaps it would have been better to die.

But that is not what his Savior wants, and therefore, it is not what Malcolm is going to get.

Instead, his Savior promises a reward. He promises that things will change now, for Malcolm, for the better. He carries Malcolm back to the cabin, warms him up with his own body heat and copious blankets, and then, when he can feel again, starts to stroke him, brings him to orgasm right in his lap.

“Come for me, my Malcolm,” he says. 

Malcolm does, gasping and clutching at his Savior’s shoulders. He comes over John’s hand as John rocks him through it, kissing him hard, because it’s what John wants.

John pushes his fingers into Malcolm’s mouth, and Malcolm licks them clean, because it’s what John wants.

Everything, always for John.

For his Savior.

For God, he supposes.

If there is one, Malcolm wonders if He’s heard the pleading prayers Malcolm’s sent over his captivity.

“Thank you, my Savior,” Malcolm says, automatically, without need to be told.

John looks at him with pride, with _love,_ and Malcolm feels an all too familiar warmth inside at the sight.

Perhaps, he thinks, this is simply where God wants him to be.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this and you
> 
> \- are 18+  
> \- ship and let ship  
> \- wanna talk about fun, whumpy, and/or 😏 stuff with other cool Prodigies
> 
> Maybe come hang out on our server [Prodigal Songbirbs 🕊️!](https://discord.gg/eQ3TK4bxn4)


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